


Kintsukuroi

by petricholour



Series: Afterisms [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: In Which I Try to Fix the Earlier Fix-It, M/M, Matt POV, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petricholour/pseuds/petricholour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not as easy as deciding to work it out. It never is. After Matt and Foggy come too close to losing each other, they must face up to truths they've spent a long time erasing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the intended epilogue for "Atlas Shrugged", which took on a distinct tone and mind of its own.
> 
> Kintsukuroi: The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer and gold, silver or platinum, believing that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

"Come", Foggy says abruptly, "let's go get burritos so good they make you shit your pants in that stupid Daredevil suit."

Matt raises an eyebrow. "You mean burritos so bad?" He leans back in his chair, grinning because he knows what's coming next.

"The true joy of Mexican food lies in incontinence, buddy. Come on, you know this. Don't shake your head. Remember 2010? You sat and sweated through the Family Law exam?" Matt chuckles. "And then you literally - no -  _do you remember -_  thwacked Kevin Bergman with your cane on the way to the loo?"

This is probably the billionth time Foggy's told this story, but Matt laughs because Foggy's funny even a billion times over. It may also have something to do with how happy Foggy sounds, all deep breaths and relaxed posture, his tie loosened and his pants a little looser on his waist because, _maddeningly enough_ , Foggy's been working out. He brushes that reminder aside to not deal with later. _Ever_. And also because he remembers the 2010 burrito incident in embarrassing detail.

Across him, Foggy's pitching the softball from one hand to another. Matt senses a shift in Foggy's shoulder almost like he sees his thoughts before they form. Foggy's arm tenses, lifts, curls and uncoils - Matt catches the ball easily at an arm's length.

"That'll never stop being really freaky", Foggy muses. "And also really cool."

Matt throws it back to him and says, "Okay. I'm up. Manuel's?"

"Your chariot awaits, sir" Foggy mock-bows, dropping the softball into an open drawer and holding his elbow out. Matt takes it.

He's learning not to look gift horses in the mouth, especially skittish blond ones. It's their first week of work after 'Daredevil Collars Fisk' hit the headlines, and Matt can't remember the last time he was this achingly, terrifyingly happy. He bends closer to Foggy, using the stairs as an excuse that isn't much of one (now that Matt's secret is out) but neither of them say anything. Foggy's side is firm and warm against him and Matt feels loose-limbed with contentment. They've been hard at work; clients and cases have steadily trickled in since they helped prosecute Fisk, and they've finally put in an air conditioner.

Foggy's the happiest - something about _real, honest work that pays the bills_ , he says. They've been handling minor cases, mostly, for friends of Mrs Cardenas who walk in with her ghost hovering over their shoulders. It's not money they're chasing, but somehow cheques are pressed gratefully into Foggy's palm. Honest work. Matt agrees, also because it seems like Hell's Kitchen is keeping up a streak of being a decent place to live in. He's not bored. Not much, anyhow. Even Karen is herself for an hour or two everyday but then she drags her feet all the way back to her apartment after she says a cheery goodbye. She makes too many cups of coffee and Foggy titters at her, but he's too trusting and happily busy to notice what Matt does. Worryingly, she's getting better at hiding it; her long, vacant silences and startling at noises - 

Matt frowns at the thought they come out onto the street, absentmindedly bobbing along in Foggy's wake until Foggy stops short at the intersection and says "Intersection."

Then, "Sorry". They stiffen, but it passes.

There are people around then, a man dropping off someone's drycleaning, a young woman intent on her donut, and he flexes his fingers slightly in the crook of Foggy's elbow, trying to convey to him that it's okay, they're okay. Matt remembers when it was worse, Right After: in and out of the court each day with Brett trailing close behind, making a conscious effort to fall back in sync. Foggy was trying.

Sometimes he'd mutter something under his breath at Matt ("Fishface from L and Z's counsel just made a really skeevy hand gesture to the guy from Trent Realtors"), then backtrack ("Oh sorry. Spidey senses. Forgot") , then berate mentally himself for behaving differently and, well. It took time for them to slot together seamlessly again. Foggy kept tripping over his own feet, Matt's cane, throwaway phrases... Matt could hear and smell and feel every awkwardness under Foggy's skin, like a clumsy touch on a livid bruise. Aghast at being the cause of this bizarre dislocation, he suffered with Foggy, and on some days it felt enough like penance. 

They held on determinedly. Paradoxically, he was glad to keep up appearances - they could be so important. He'd never underestimated the effect the pair of them had on people as lawyers. Long-haired, solid Foggy with his shoulders squared, who always managed to look reassuring and unthreatening next to Matt, who looked as unusual as Foggy looked normal. Reporters crowd them on the steps of the court, flocking to Foggy because he seemed more reliable than the pale, blind lawyer. He does get hit on by the occasional journalist but as more of a curiosity than anything. Nothing new there. Foggy's the one they ask for quotes. There's some justice in that, he thinks, more people need to see Foggy for what he really is - the better man of the two. 

Foggy deserves to have things going well, like Marci. _He's okay with it. Really_. Tremendously impressed, too, with how Marci managed to keep her job and successfully indict Landman and Zack. Marci may be a little caustic, but he has to credit her perspicuity about Foggy. And clearly, the sex is spectacular; Foggy is infuriatingly glowy with post-coital pheromones every morning at work. Matt and he have only fought (short, terse, scared of breaking the truce) about being Daredevil only once. He nearly believes Foggy when he waves it off, saying "Its done now, anyway. You already are Daredevil, its done". Matt threw up his hands and said he's going to stay away as long as he can and found he almost meant it.

Why can't he shake off the feeling of being on tenterhooks? Foggy keeps starting to say something before he stops himself. Matt flinches away from another fight. He won't survive another round.

The smell of garlic hits him a block away, and he says, “We are so getting extra guacamole”.

**

After they settle down into the corner table Matt picked and the beers are making condensation rings on the table, Foggy clears his throat. Matt panics, irrationally. Is it ‘a talk'? With a sinking feeling of inevitability be preempts it with, “No, Foggy, I’m not putting it on tonight. And no, I’m not certain that I never will.”

“Actually, Marci asked me to move in.”

Matt sheepishly fumbles for his beer and takes a swig, deflated. "Oh."

“Weirdly enough I didn’t want to debate your extracurricular activities tonight”, Foggy continues.

Matt nods. “Sorry. Um, what’d you say?”

Foggy lifts one shoulder noncommittally. “I didn’t know what to. It’s just that the last person I lived with was you, and that was the gateway to a sincere business partnership and ugh, maybe it’s a stretch but I always feel this unshakeable loyalty to whoever I cohabitate with? You remember what happened with me and Kay? What if that happens again?”

“I am _so_ glad you didn’t propose to me”, Matt quips, recovering somewhat.  _But could you imagine._

Foggy angles his head pointedly, probably giving Matt a look.

“No - you know what I mean, I’m just not _saying_ it right. Thank you, Lee”, he nods to the waiter who sets down their orders. He pushes Matt’s plate towards him with his beer.

“You’ll voodoo yourself into inadvisable commitments if you move in with Marci? There isn’t enough evidence to extrapolate from, seriously.”

“What if it isn’t her who has a lot of misplaced expectations, we both know it's casual, sorta, but what if? I mean, Kay!”

“You were 23 and pretty much stoned all the time”, Matt says through his mouthful of tacos. "I don't think you know why you proposed, really."

“Disgusting, Murdock. Also. Truth be told I kinda felt like that’s what she wanted so I did it. Maybe I was picking up on subliminal expectations.”

“She wanted to get married? Dude, she turned you down!”

“No, no. Like, society’s expectations." Matt raises an eyebrow. “Shut up, listen. Marci and I broke up, and then there was Kay. She asked me to move in so I should do her one better and do something that was as relationshippy? Maybe i wanted to prove to myself that i could function without, uh." Abruptly interrupting himself, Foggy pushes a hand through his hair. The smell of his coconut shampoo cuts through the garlic atmosphere. "You know what? I don’t even know”. He leans back in his chair and takes a swig.

“Are you saying you pressurise yourself into making commitments so the other person doesn’t feel bad?” Matt leans in. “Is that why you left L and Z? Because I wanted to?”

Foggy takes his time putting his bottle on the table with a _thunk_. “Don’t be stupid. That is just a ploy to make me loudly reaffirm my faith in Your Doucheness so you feel better about the fact that you think Daredevil is contingent upon, what, _the intensity of criminal activity_?' or something.”

Matt grins. “I am touched by your deep regard, Fog. Butt tell her no instead of hedging.”

“Mmgh." Foggy rolls his beer between his palms, clearly distracted by something he's not telling Matt. Since when has Foggy spooked at commitment? He looks up, and Matt guesses that a pleading look is being directed at him. "Please help me not feel like an ass about this, somehow.”

Matt gestures to himself. “Are you sure about that?”

Foggy snorts lightly. He takes a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully for a while before wondering, “Maybe I’ll take her to that gallery reopening tomorrow. Finger foods, classy music, lots of hipsters - I mean things are good, buddy, but I'm not ready to commit so hard."

“Ironic though, isn’t it? Vanessa’s gallery?"

Figgy huffs. “I’m not sure we did the right thing not even investigating her”. He points his fork at Matt meaningfully. “And now look! She’s vanished like the last seat on the subway in rush hour. Suuuuper fishy. Then her gallery went under and everything...”

“By _we_ you mean Brett, and you know as well as I do that we had nothing against her. Zero evidence. Although that’s pretty much because she was innocent, Foggy. You know that. She was in love with Fisk, which doesn’t make her a criminal. Love is love.”

Foggy shakes his head. “So why’d she disappear? And don’t even lie - you kinda had a thing for that woman. No, you did! I saw you making eyes at each other when she came to court that one time.”

“What? Making – making eyes? I’m _blind_!”

“Like that ever stopped you, Mr Magic Dick. Plus you’re a criminal yourself so I guess she’d be into you”, Foggy muses. “Maybe you could come along with us and actually buy some art this time. Go home, drink some wine, I dunno, visualise it the way she told you, get off or something...”

Matt can feel his ears burning. "Um."

"That's the way you described it, buddy", Foggy drawls, "All like 'feel the passion of the artist, Mr Murdock mmmm' - "

“Could you ask for the check?" Matt swallows. "Also you have the weirdest masturbation fantasies about me which is very, very interesting, Foggy”, he laughs oddly.

"Yeah, right" Foggy absentmindedly replies, craning his neck to look for a waiter. Then whips around to look at Matt, clearly hit by some uncomfortable brainwave. “Dude, did you - in college - I mean...ever hear...? No. Wait. Forget it.” He shakes his head like he can dislodge the idea.

Oh.

Matt tries to look nonchalant as Lee gets the bill.

_I did. Every time. Pre-exam stress, post-exam joy, Marci on the phone, both of you giggling at the silly thrill of  phone sex... I always knew. Not even my best noise-cancelling headphones could have hidden the way you smelled, the way you moved, the bitten-off groans, the-_

The restaurant feels very loud around him. Foggy is aggressively scrutinizing the check. Matt flexes his hand. 

“Do you wanna get ice-cream?”, Foggy asks in an obvious attempt to change the subject. He’s out of his seat like a rocket, moving with the hidden grace of the school’s star pitcher. They pay and Foggy holds the door open for Matt. He's still subdued with embarrassment, but some things are muscle memory. Matt pushes past the inviting warmth of his body, trying to look small.

For a while, Matt walks on ahead with his cane tapping out in front because the ice cream parlour's just a couple of storefronts down, and mainly because Foggy's probably stewing in the remembered realisation of Matt's super senses and coming to terms with the massive invasion of privacy. _I'm so fucking sorry._

They catch up with each other at the counter of the ice-cream parlour where Foggy orders Chunky Nougat and Matt gets his usual, vanilla. There's some art installation nearby with benches around it and they wander over to it. It's made of recycled metal, slightly warm from the last rays of the sun and bouncing back the incessant murmur of pedestrians' feet. Foggy drops his attaché at his feet and sits cross-legged, declaring, "I can afford the drycleaning now, thank god."

_'What is that?', Matt grimaced as Foggy excitedly set down his attaché on the shared desk of their tiny office in Landman and Zack._

_'Um, classic fashion? And a wickedly cool yet gentlemanly transport for important lawyerly documents?", Foggy lovingly stroked the worn leather sides._

_Matt chortled and Foggy pointed a finger at him "Eat your heart out, Murdock, my dad gave it to me thirty years after Grandpa gave it to him. This is a manly inheritance, and it's cool." Matt's grin froze on his face and Foggy hastened to say 'Oops, shit I'm sorry I - "_

_"Well my dad left me cash money, so." He appreciates the sentiment by skirting it._

_"Which you nearly spent paying back your crushing student loans, ooooh!" Matt mock-gasped and swatted vaguely at him, pretending like he couldn't just grab Foggy's bicep and pull him down on his lap._

 

Despite the awkwardness of the restaurant, this is nice. Even the awful, tangled memories of that first ice-cream in the park with Stick hasn’t put him off. Matt settles down and takes a contemplative lick of his ice-cream. It melts on his tongue, preservatives and flavouring swirled in milk solids. He takes another lick, humming slightly in pleasure, when he realises that Foggy’s quite silent. A second of focus tells Matt that Foggy’s staring. His Chunky Nougat is dripping onto his hand. Matt looks up questioningly and Foggy turns away, a patina of blood and heat on his face, a telltale halo of a blush. Is he still thinking about the restaurant?

"Foggy?"

"Hmm?", Foggy responds without looking back at him.

His heartbeat is stuttering slightly as he fumbles around for extra napkins to avoid acknowledging Matt at all. He doesn't remark that Matt hasn't finished what he was saying. Foggy triumphantly locates a napkin and grabs it with his sticky fingers, wiping where he can and licking where the ice-cream has dried into a milky track. The sound of Foggy's tongue on his own skin makes Matt shiver slightly, but he's very, very good at pretending. He finishes his ice-cream and lightly sucks the tips of his ring finger. Next to him Foggy's heart goes 'ba-thump' so loudly Matt almost giggles out loud before realising what that means and _what it means is that he'll deal with it later. Or never at all, like always._

Foggy's now collecting their spoons and used napkins and hightailing it to the nearest bin, bristling with some unidentifiable emotion. Defensiveness? It thrills him to wonder what Foggy may be wondering, is he circling back to the same thought Matt is? Are they... Foggy's heartbeat is back to normal as he clears his throat and picks up his leather attaché. Matt reaches out.

**

Foggy is walking him to the nearest intersection to his apartment, and Matt is so awash in the smell of leather and Chunky Nougat and Foggy's shampoo that he nearly jumps out of his skin as Foggy's phone buzzes.

Gently extracting Matt's hand from his elbow, he receives it with a cheerful "Yello! Yep, I was just on my way home - no yeah, I am with him but - what?" Foggy blushes and clears his throat. "An enticing proposition indeed. Do not even touch the case files on the couch, but make yourself comfortable. Thai sounds good, the takeout menus are in the - yeah. Yep, I'll be there in ten." Marci purrs happily on the other end of the line. "Hey, sorry buddy, Marci awaits."

"It's fine, you know I can walk myself from here"

"Yeah but don't go parkour-ing over fire escapes and whatnot."

"I have been doing this for a while now, Foggy, I think I know how to keep a secret."

Foggy stills, but retorts, "Boy do you _ever_."

Matt is tight-lipped as Foggy pats him forcefully on the back and pushes past him. They seem to do this a lot these days, the sudden flash of teeth in between the genuinely sweet. It confuses Matt. "See you Monday," Foggy tosses over his shoulder. Matt follows Foggy's heartbeat for a block before realising he looks like an idiotic traffic island in the stream of harried pedestrians and goes home.

**

As he turns the key in the lock and steps inside his flat it dawns on him that he's tired, and that it has nothing to do with their workload and everything to do with Foggy. Not now. _Oh god, not now, after all this time_. He's kept the lid on all... this for years. He didn't even realise when there began to be something he had to hide until it was too late, until Foggy was already gasping Marci's name in a room across campus and coming to class with his hair smelling like nailpaint. Now there's a beer in his hands that he doesn't remember uncapping. He can do this; he _is_ doing this.

Taking a swig, he makes his way to the closet where he keeps his suit. There's no denying the confused thrill of anger, resentment, guilt and leftover arousal that courses through him, but he's been on such a good streak that a bad day doesn't justify breaking it.

 _Stop hiding from what you know, you pussy_ , Stick's voice says in his head. He flings the trunk open with his big toe and breathes in the faintly ozonised scent of the armour. Lifting one shoulder and then the next, he rolls his neck as he picks up a slightly bloodied gauntlet and carries it back to the kitchen. He bins his empty beer and sets to work cleaning off the stain with a paper towel and some peroxide in an industrial-sized container.  _Out, damned spot,_ he whispers to himself as he leaves it on the counter to dry and fetches another beer.

The trouble is, Matt has never been wrong about attraction.

The chemistry of scents is simple and unmistakable. But approaching someone simply based off of that - that's tricky. People hate to realise they've let something slip, and Matt's come close to a black eye or two with closeted men in the past. Like that time in college, when the music in the latest student dive was pulsing hard behind his eyeballs and he confidently reached out and put a hand on Corey Walsh's waist and leaned in for a kiss. _What the fuck, Matt? I'm not that kinda guy! Get the fuck away from me!_

Matt had been petrified for a week that Corey would start some unpleasantness in any of the three classes he shared with himself and Foggy, but Corey restrained himself to jibes in class and once memorably, trying to sabotage Matt in a moot. Somehow sensing this, Foggy had utterly demolished Corey as opposing advocate.

Matt smiles at the memory - Foggy's voice sharp with a cruelty that it had always lacked, smelling blood in the water. That's when he'd had the first inkling of what it would be like to have Foggy as a partner in their very own law firm. They always went to as many moots as they could, and Foggy repeatedly demonstrated that what he lacked in academic achievement he more than made up for in ferocious deconstruction. Well, this week wasn't such a bad example either. With age and the sudden weight of Elena and Ben Ulrich's death on his shoulders, Foggy is a changed man in court. With more gravitas, somehow, a steadiness to his argumentation that makes him an inexorable force.

Every time Foggy shifted in his seat when they were close to a victory, Matt's nostrils would flare, sharply breathing in that particular scent of a very focussed Foggy. He wondered what it would be like to be the object of that kind of focus. To be pinned against a bathroom stall door in the courtroom while Foggy ravages him with calm and deadly concentration. Fuck, he's hard. He sits down on the chair facing the couch. If he tries, he can still smell Foggy in the fibers. Maybe he's imagining he can.

Everything is too much now, _After_ \- that's what this is. Daredevil and nearly losing Foggy (twice) is just making him waver on a resolution he made years ago. Especially now, when Foggy's happy with Marci. Is he? Foggy hadn't wanted to. What did that mean? Nothing at all. Things are good, they've made amends, they get dinner together and Foggy ponders moving in with Marci. Things are great but nothing goes in its box anymore, the edges of his self spooling out like lose threads from a sweater and he feels much the same as he did when Foggy found him bleeding out on the rug. _Fuck_.

Knowing isn't enough. Knowing doesn't mean he's _right_. He made a mistake with Stick once, asking to be loved. He won't make it again. He's still hard.

Matt hisses lightly through his teeth as he palms himself through his sweatpants, shifting the angle of his hand and opening his legs wider. Throwing his head back, he pushes his hand past the elastic and takes hold of his cock, stroking it eagerly. The scent of his own precum fills the air as he slicks his hand with it, firmly pulling on the upstroke and curling his fingers around the head.

Turning so that his cheek is pressed to the back of the chair, he remembers the shape of Foggy in it and breathes in sharply - the upholstery smells of the flat, but Matt unerringly conjures the smell of shampoo and printer ink and leather and the mildewy smell of the office. Sweat. The sound of Foggy taking to his feet in court. The warmth of his elbow, his neck, his stomach. The sound of Foggy's tongue against his skin, his stuttering heartbeat, sometimes. He could make a Foggy of his own with an ocean of minutae. _I've been collecting pieces of you_. Matt comes with a pained groan, his thighs shaking as he works himself through the aftershocks. The shock is remote, delayed. This was a long time coming, he thinks, as he peels off his sweatpants and chucks them in the hamper.

He stands barefoot on the tile, languorous despite himself. So, just like that, he gave in. How pathetic is this, jacking off to the thought of his best friend and business partner at the age of twenty nine like a teenager with a crush. _Oh no, its much worse than a crush_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully. Not letting himself think about Foggy has become such a habit that its a relief to let go. Foggy's the reliable one, anyway; holding Matt up. All Matt ever does is drag them down.

_What colour is it? Matt had wondered aloud, rubbing the strands between his fingers, helpless not to do so. It was the night they'd walked out of Landman and Zack. They got utterly hammered at Josie's and made their staggering way to Foggy's tiny apartment, Matt breathing into Foggy's ear while Foggy moaned 'bye bye, bagels'._

_When they got inside and Foggy shut the door, Matt whirled around to ask Foggy why his couch smelled like Axe when Foggy didn't wear it and he luckily stopped himself before opening his mouth, but forgot to concentrate on his balance, with the consequence that he got the literal spins and fell into Foggy's arms like an honest-to-god fainting princess._ _Foggy held him for what seemed like an eternity, and Matt wished he wasn't blind so he could **see** Foggy looking into his face. He felt Foggy's gaze as viscerally as a touch, and pushed incrementally closer _ please Foggy oh god _until Foggy got the idea that Matt must be addled with drink._

_They were neither of them willing to make coffee, but they eventually sat side by side on Foggy's bed with the laptop playing a movie between them. Matt felt himself gathering the courage to do something, and when he turned towards Foggy and opened his mouth, he was so scared of saying "I want to kiss you" that he said "Can I touch you?" instead._

_"Whazzat?" Foggy blinked slowly._

_"Touch your face. I can't start a business with you if I don't even know what you look like."_

_"Oh" Foggy sounded disappointed. "Won't you take me at my word that I'm devastatingly hot?"_

_"No", Matt replied seriously._

_"Oh. Okay." Foggy hesitated. "What are you going t-"_

_He fell silent as Matt's fingers softly grazed his cheek. Matt curled his fingers and touched with the back of his hand, taking in Foggy's fuzzy peach-like skin, and the warmth of blood underneath. Foggy was holding his breath, Matt realised. He withdrew his hand slightly, and then reached out with both, starting at Foggy's hairline, drawing down his forehead. He followed the curves of Foggy's eyebrows, outlined his eye-sockets, ran fingers down his sharply pointed nose. Foggy had high, wide cheekbones and ears that stuck out a little. He was perfect, and Matt's heart thundered so hard in his chest he could barely hear Foggy's._

_Foggy's chin-length hair was as soft as down, and Matt felt the strands slip over his callused fingertips. 'What colour is it?' 'Blonde', Foggy rasped. Tracing the shell of both ears at once, Matt paused at the bolt of Foggy's jaw, feeling him swallow. Matt drew his fingers in from the edges of Foggy's mouth and meeting in the middle, when Foggy parted his lips. The index finger of Matt's right hand rested slightly inside the swell of Foggy's bottom lip, where it was slick with saliva and unbelievably warm. They both hung there for many seconds, suspended on the edge of terrifying possibility. The rush of his blood was so loud that it made him oddly calm, like he was high. Foggy's breath ghosted over the sliver of skin inside his fingernails. He smelled sourly of whisky and arousal. So did he. Then Matt remembered the napkin inside his jacket. It said Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. He couldn't do this. Not now. Hastily, he smoothed his fingers over the bump of Foggy's chin and unconsciously stroked the back of his fingers over the softness under Foggy's chin and didn't kiss his best friend. He didn't fuck Foggy and they saved the future of their firm._

_"You aren't devastatingly hot", tumbled out of his mouth instead of "nnngh Foggy, I'm always hot for you", and Foggy huffed a slightly hurt laugh before he got up to get something, possibly from the kitchen. Patting the warm spot he left behind, Matt fell asleep between mentally kicking himself, slumping over sideways on Foggy's too-small bed._

_The next morning they both pretended like they don't remember._

**

It's at little after two a.m on a Friday night, and Matt stews in post-orgasmic guilt as he puts on his suit and hurtles down the fire escape. He puts hand over hand until he's in the alleyway his window looks out upon. The four odd beers he's had so far slosh audibly in his stomach as he suppresses an undignified burp. Well. It's a little risky being seen outside his own apartment building, but this is more guaranteed to tire him out than drinking. And god, he needs some air. He sprints to the mouth of the alley and up the drainpipes of the office block opposite. His shoulders burn satisfyingly, and he braces the tips of his boots against the brick as he climbs onto the roof. He's under the billboard now, certain that its searing brightness renders his shape a dark shadow next to the struts.

Underneath the electric whine of the billboard lights he can hear the usual metal groans from the waterfront as the cranes inanimately contract, a far-out klaxon from the Coast Guard, and the quiet susurrus of thousands of people snuffling in their sleep between 42nd and 56th Street. There are a few kids selling dope in an alley off 57th and Ninth Avenue. Harmless. Out of work actors, probably. Nothing is happening. _He needs something to be happening_. Sniffing the air, he runs and takes a leap off the edge of the roof, landing squarely on his feet on the apartment building adjacent to it. Without anything particular in mind except just running around and taking his mind off his mind, he zones out a little as he swings window sill to sill, down to street level.

He crosses the street in the lull between two knots of late-night traffic while staying clear of the security cameras. Up and over the sides of the stores on Eight Avenue, one of which burned down in an electrical fire this week. Not arson, he checked. Mr Singh had nearly burst into tears in their office and Foggy had rushed over to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The acrid smell fills his nose and he feels the ghostly ache of a stranger's pain. He runs flat-out across the roof and onto the next, and the next, making roughly for the waterfront.

Sometimes he worried about something or someone like Black Sky. Some sort of strange entity that was ... Madame Gao had disappeared like smoke in the wind. Not like Nobu, not like Leland Owlsey (his skull crushed much like Sergei Ranskahov) and not like James Welsey, who, it was whispered, had been shot by a mysterious hand. No. There was no body, no chatter. Madame Gao was a little... like she wasn't completely human. He almost shakes off the thought as silly before realising that aliens in New York wouldn't exactly be shocking. And what can he do about it anyway? Fisk's syndicate is scattered, and Daredevil is bored. Truth is he doesn't have a plan. Not for the long term and definitely not for now. Maybe Foggy was right, maybe what he craved wasn't a fair fight but the thrill of confrontation.

"Why are we talking about Matt now?", Foggy whines from right under his feet.

Matt recoils in shock, collapsing back into his own head like a deck of cards. He'd -  

He'd followed Foggy's scent all over Hell's Kitchen unconsciously - from his flat on 43rd and Eleventh (how had he known, without even stopping to focus, that the apartment was empty?) to Marci's place, where he'd never been. Where Foggy must have gone after take-out Thai at his place. Muscle memory. Post-masturbatory yearning? Matt nearly doubles over as he tries to make sense of what he's done, panting from the shock of it. His night is going from bad to worse, he thinks, leaning heavily on the ladder to a water tank. _I am not going to listen_ , he desperately promises himself even as he slides down along the handrail.

"Because, Foggy bear, you did something heartbreakingly stupid and said his name when you came."

Matt gapes into the darkness.

Foggy sputters in outrage. "Wha- I did not- what the fuck, Marci, I'm sick of your - about this. I am not, Matt and I - we're not fucking and oh my god, I cannot believe you'd think that!" Foggy gathers his clothes from the foot of his bed and stomps into Marci's attached bathroom, slamming the door shut.

"Foggyyyyy...", Marci drawls. She raises her voice so that Foggy can hear her from behind the door. "I don't mind, I really don't, okay? Foggy? I know you can hear me."

She follows Foggy to the bathroom door, trailing a silk bedsheet behind her as she leans her forehead against it, judging from the gentle _thunk_. "Look, just admit it, okay? Come clean. We talked about this, remember? Listen to me, Foggy." She sounds a little sad, and Matt feels himself go incandescent with embarrassment. He can hardly bring himself to hope and he feels like shit for wanting to, standing on the roof of Marci's apartment, eavesdropping on her and Foggy's post-coital arguments. About himself.

 _You're like a gossipy old biddy. A lovelorn child. No, you're just sick_ , Stick sneers. _You're a disgrace, Matt. Look at you._


	2. Chapter 2

Matt stumbles home, his limbs leaden. He almost falls off a fire escape, his gloves snagging on a shard of rusted metal. It feels as though he's swimming upright because the air is so thick; he opens the roof access door when the first rays of the sun are already touching the tips of Manhattan. Where did the time go? Was it between one moment and the next, vaulting over a parapet and uncoiling his body midair? Was it those hours he spent on top of an industrial crane on the waterfront, oddly comforted by the wordless creaking of the steel wires in the breeze?

He's peeling off bits of his suit as he walks, wandering towards the bathroom sink. He registers the lump of his stained sweatpants in the corner as he's splashing his face with water. The water drips off his chin. In a fit of pique, he snatches them up and bundles them into a trash bag. _Incinerate this_ , he instructs himself. The Hindus believe that the soul lets go of the body after it's cremated. _Just hope that it goes away after you've burnt it._

The bed is cool to the touch. The silk is sleek and soft, wound around Marci's supple, voluptuous body. He rips the bedclothes off and curls up on the bare mattress. It doesn't hurt as much as it usually does, and he manages to sleep fitfully. Somewhere after the fourth time he wakes up, he closes the blinds because the morning sun stripes his bed with heat.

**

Foggy rings the doorbell at noon. Matt is lying on his back, arms bent over his stomach like he's dead. Foggy rings again. He's leaning with a forearm against the doorjamb, clearly not going anywhere. _Fuck_.

"Wait", Matt croaks, swinging himself up and grabbing an old t-shirt from the floor.

When he opens the door, Foggy takes a step back. "What time did you get home last night?", he asks, peering closely at him with his chin jutting out slightly. Matt lifts a shoulder desultorily.

  
Matt leaves Foggy to close the door behind him and goes to the kitchen area to pour himself a glass of water. Foggy's been home, had breakfast and two glasses of orange juice and showered. His hair smells less like nailpaint and more like himself. When he walks, the material of his pants slides together, telling Matt that Foggy's changed into one of the pairs of jeans he's had since even before Columbia. _My jean grandmother_ , Foggy would say, slapping his thigh approvingly. _True heritage, Matty_.

  
"You know, you may need some practice at the whole secret-identity thing. It doesn't take a genius to look at that red suit and wonder if you aren't one of New York's most wanted men." He follows Matt into the kitchen, casually leaning one elbow on the counter behind him. Foggy leans a lot these days; stretching, relaxing, comfortable in his own skin... _Maddening_ , Matt scolds mentally, rinsing his glass.

  
But Foggy's right - his costume is lying on the floor like the cast-off skin of some reptile. He scoops up the pieces and chucks them in the trunk. It shuts with a clang.

  
Foggy starts again, drifting towards the couch. "I do love these long, meditative silences, Matt but seriously - you look not at all okay."

  
Matt whips around. Foggy just sat down in That Chair. A mongrel sort of synaesthesia seizes him, scent and sound and the ghost of an orgasm passing through his body in quick succession.

  
"Yeah", he manages.

  
"Have you brushed your teeth today?" Foggy stops him as he's about to plonk onto the couch opposite him. Matt frowns and mouths "No?"

  
"Go do that. And take a shower, Matty honestly. It's nearly noon and you're a grown up lawyer now." Matt cants his head at him, puzzled but obedient. "Go!"

  
This is so weird, he reflects, brushing his teeth. Behind the door, which is slightly ajar, he hears Foggy texting someone. He nudges it shut with his heel and takes a shower, thinking as little as possible about Foggy on the other side of the door.

  
When he emerges, towelling his hair dry, Foggy is pacing around the living room. He looks up at the sound and nods approvingly. "Okay, go get changed."

  
Matt is mystified by Foggy in his flat now, after what must have been a difficult night for him too ( _you're just hoping it was, you idiot. He probably just laughed it off and made up with Marci and had triumphant sex till he fell asleep in her arms_ ) but he doesn't mind. Whenever Foggy has offered him an olive branch, a conversational cue, an out - he's taken it. Foggy's unknowingly helping him keep up appearances, and Matt isn't complaining, especially not today. He feels around for one of the nicer t-shirts.

  
"Are you done yet? Were you always this fussy or has it really been that long? Matt?" Foggy pokes his head around his bedroom door. He can sense Foggy eyeing the bedclothes flung around the bed. "Nice", he wrly remarks. "That must have been some really memorable sex, even for you." He sits gingerly on the edge of the bare mattress, lacing his fingers together.

  
Matt doesn't trust himself to open his mouth so he pretends to be very busy smoothing down his t-shirt. It's a very dark red one Mrs Nelson gifted him one Christmas. He was apprehensive about accepting coloured clothes that he hadn't picked out himself, but Mrs Nelson had put a hand on his shoulder and said _it'll look really good on your complexion, boy_. Every successful date he'd had while wearing that t-shirt had only proved her right. He picks up his glasses from the bedside table and folds them into his loose fist. Why on earth did he pick out that one?

  
_Because I'm pathetic and I like pressing on my bruises and nearly daring to believe,_  he thinks as he crosses the bed to stand in front of Foggy. He jounces once on the balls of his feet, saying "Done." He unfolds the glasses with a distinct tok of metal and glass, slides them onto his nose.

  
Foggy's breath hitches but he's quiet as he watches Matt. His heartbeat picks up steadily, louder from one beat to the next like Foggy's getting ready to say something. Do something. The moment stretches for a few more seconds and Matt feels silly all of a sudden, standing in front of Foggy in an old, albeit nice red t-shirt with his hip slightly popped, preening. This is exactly why he doesn't trust himself. Standing with Foggy an arm's length away, looking up at Matt him with his heart murmuring loudly - unmistakable.

  
_You can't un-fuck him. Or this situation. So don't even try_.

  
Foggy unlaces his fingers and rises up into Matt's personal space. They're close now. Have been closer - drunk nights, Foggy guiding Matt around, tethering him to the earth - but this is different. He feels every hair on his body pulled towards Foggy's well of static electricity. Surely Foggy feels it too? His skin seems hot, flushed; his palms are sweating, Matt realizes, as sensitive to Foggy's body as if it were his own. Maybe now he -

  
Foggy brings up a hand that was hanging at his side and for a wild moment Matt think Foggy's about to punch him. Or caress him. Instead, he lays it softly on Matt's shoulder and gives it a fleeting squeeze.

  
"Okay." Foggy whispers quietly. "Let's go then."

  
He nibly steps sideways and out of their little bubble. Matt frowns and follows him slowly into the living room. Foggy is neither tense nor defensive like yesterday. Why is he here? Was he imagining all that, back in his bedroom? Why is Foggy so weirdly relaxed?

  
Matt stiffens as realisation dawns.

  
Foggy knows that Matt can tell.

  
Foggy hated it, didn't he? ( _It's weird, and invasive, Matt!_ ) But he'd just stood there and let Matt look and listen and smell. The chemistry of scent and sound is undeniable. If Matt sensed it, Foggy must've felt it and haven't they known forever, really? The realisation unfolds in his stomach, warm and slightly ticklish. _Marci, I owe you_ , he thinks fiercely. Foggy is scary smart and Matt loves him. Calm and unhurried now, Foggy pulls out a stool from the kitchen table and perches himself on it. His phone is in his hands but he's looking at Matt. Expectant.

  
How do you say something you've nearly said so many times? How do you begin? You can't frame it like a discovery when you both know what's coming. _We can only come undone and hope to be understood_. Heart hammering in his throat, Matt tentatively crosses the space between them - the still faintly bloodstained rug (even an overnight peroxide soak couldn't wash out the evidence of that night), past the window that sometimes hums with the frequency of the billboard lights, past the chair where he let himself go.

  
It's the longest ten steps of his life.

  
Matt keeps going till he's almost between Foggy's knees. Finding an insouciance he didn't know he possessed, he raises an eyebrow and asks "Exactly where are we going, Mr. Nelson?"

  
Foggy's face is tilted up towards him, and Matt can tell he's smiling. It's like standing in a column of sunlight on winter's day; Foggy Nelson is blazing. A hand snakes around his waist, coming to rest firmly on the small of his back. Matt tilts forward and Foggy leans back till he's against the counter. "Well I thought we could go see the gal-"

  
Matt catches the rest of the sentence with his lips, carefully slotting his mouth against Foggy's. _This bit is important_. The hand on the small of his back tightens into a fist as Matt kisses softly - kiss kiss kiss - the pout of Foggy's hot, wet mouth. Somebody is trembling slightly; Foggy's other hand palms his scapula and he finds himself pulled down over his body. He pulls his lips away for a second and sits down carefully, deliberately, on Foggy's left thigh. It's as delicious as he'd always imagined, the softness of Foggy's belly against him and his arms around his frame. Matt lowers his forehead to Foggy's and they sit like that for a moment, breathing each other's air. _Can you believe we_ -?

  
Matt growls first, clutching a handful of Foggy's t-shirt and fiercely kissing him again, this time nipping and sucking at his bottom lip. Foggy jerks slightly with each bite, and Matt bears down on him, bracing his hands on the counter behind and smoothly straddling both of Foggy's thighs.

  
There's a strangled sort of noise from Foggy as Matt sucks hard, moving from the corner of Foggy's mouth to the bolt of his jaw and scraping his teeth along the bone. This time when Foggy jolts up, Matt grinds down with purpose, finding the telltale bulge in Foggy's pants that matches his own, setting a wild pace that comes from somewhere deep inside him.

  
He curls both his hands in the throat of Foggy's crew-neck t-shirt and pulls, exposing skin that's soft and thin and absolutely begging to be marked.

  
"MattMattMatt", Foggy gasps, the back of the t-shirt pulled taut against his neck as Matt grinds against his erection. When he bites a particularly tender spot, Foggy whines plaintively and responds by cupping Matt's ass in both hands, pulling him in even harder against his front.

  
The stool Foggy's sitting on makes little complaining noises as Matt wildly ruts against him, Foggy mumbling incoherent things that Matt keeps devouring with his lips, heedlessly needy. Just before he comes, Foggy falls silent. Matt knows exactly how Foggy's orgasm unrolls through him, but he's so shocked at the force of it (lifting the both of them off the stool for a good five seconds, and Matt knows he's heavy) that Matt comes too, tipped over the edge by the sheer frenzy of it. He writhes helplessly in Foggy's grasp, his glasses on the end of his nose and a litany of _MattyMattyMatty_ in his ear.

  
They're both panting heavily, spent in their pants (again) and Manhattan traffic eddies past the building, a million different honks and car radios and murmuring voices pushing into the white noise in Matt's brain. Look at that, the world's still carrying on like nothing happened.

  
He winds his arms across Foggy's shoulders, acutely aware of the smell of sex that fills the apartment. God, he's giddy with it. With a sudden grunt, Foggy picks him up and walks the few steps to the couch (!!!!, Matt's overloaded brain comments) He untangles Matt's legs from his thighs and sits down gingerly next to him.

"My pants are a mess", Foggy groans, popping open the button of his jeans and sliding them off. Matt flings out a tentative hand to close his palm over Foggy's softening cock. Foggy hisses through his teeth, but doesn't stop him. He rolls the muscle lightly, able to tell from the way Foggy undulates and opens his legs wider that he's got another orgasm or two in him. Incredible.

  
Foggy tosses his head back against the cushions, really starting to get into it when Matt stops. He makes a sleepy noise of protest that he tamps down when he notices Matt shucking his jeans off. His glasses, too, and then he starts again. Matt finds himself grinning because there's something furtive about the way Foggy nudges his hand into Matt's lap, like they're doing this under the classroom desks during a lecture. Fuck, why did they waste so much time? Foggy's cock is making little interested twitches while he pumps Matt. It takes them both longer to come this time, oversensitive and already flush with happy chemicals, but they work each other to a sloppy, toe-curling finish.

  
Foggy brings his come-covered hand to his face, splaying his fingers and examining them with a lively curiosity. He sucks one finger into his mouth without any warning, and Matt nearly comes again (rendered impossible by having come just seconds ago). _This is so much better than I ever fantasised_. By consensus, they decide to wipe their hands on Matt's t-shirt because Foggy only has the one he's wearing. "You know, your mom gave me that,", Matt remarks as Foggy balls it up and throws it in the vague direction of the laundry hamper.

  
Foggy goggles at him. "Thanks for telling me that after I already came twice so I can't _beat your ass_ for reminding me of my mother at such a crucial moment of our lives". Matt giggles. "You're such an asshole I can't even believe it sometimes," he declares, hugging Matt to him with one arm.

  
"Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"A crucial moment of our lives?"

Foggy scrunches up his face. Matt knows for sure because he put his still-slightly-cum-y hands on his face because he's nervous.

"Okay. Apart from the fact that we spontaneously had really desperate, teenager sex everywhere except your bedroom, I think we can safely say yes."

Matt waits him out.

"I've had a thing for you for longer than I care to remember, Matt", Foggy sighs, resting his hands on Matt's hips.

"And then? I mean, you're with Marci", he pouts.

"And you were with - ! I don't even know, a succession of unbelievably hot women! I didn't even know you liked men!"

"I am _so_ offended you never even noticed."

"I suspected, sure, but we somehow never spoke about it. You never really, I mean I never hung out with any of yours, not like Marci, or Kay, right?"

  
Matt nods. "I knew about you, though."

"G-ah. I figured." Foggy admits a little sheepishly. "That's what I immediately realised when you said -"

" - that I could tell when you were lying?"

"Yeah."

"Mm."

Matt surges forward to kiss Foggy again. He shivers at the taste of his own semen on his lips, but he keeps it chaste. _Remember, this is important_. Matt noses at Foggy's hair. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

  
Foggy snorts.

  
Matt pulls back and holds him at arm's length, levelling him with his best meaningful glare. "I have been repressing how much in love I am in love with you for seven years, Foggy. You better take me at my word."

  
Foggy squirms. "Love, Foggy, I love you." He's rewarded with a slow, spreading wave of contentment through Foggy's veins.

  
"You told me I wasn't even hot." There's a moue of dismay in his voice that Matt will not countenance.

  
"Because I was stupid! I was stupid and I was so fucking turned on but so used to denying it and we'd just quit our jobs and were going to start our own law firm and everything was so much! You don't even know how long I've felt like this and its a little humiliating, okay," Matt cries, throwing his hands up. "You could've said something!"

  
"When? Before or after I realised you were possibly straight and completely out of my league?"

  
Matt sputters indignantly. "I am NOT out of your league, what even - you're my best friend! Don't be ridiculous."

  
Shaking his head incredulously, Foggy stands up and stretches his arms over his head. He contemplatively drums his fingers on his tummy as he changes the subject.

  
"I'm kinda hungry. And need another shower. Can we get pizza, or something?" He pads off to the bathroom, and soon there are noises of him cursing as he bangs his toe against the edge of the tub "God fucking dammit-"

  
Matt reaches around the door and smugly flicks on the light. Foggy ignores him with a huff and twiddles the knobs in the shower. Matt shuts the door behind him and walks into the middle of the apartment. What a reversal of fortune though. What did the Greeks call it? Peripeteia. Wait no, that was tragedy. He means the opposite of that, like a surreally happy turn. Matt scrolls through the contacts on his phone, pulling up his favourite pizza place and ordering a large pepperoni.

  
He's suspicious of how good he feels, now that Foggy isn't directly in front of him. The steady stream of water on tile reassures him that this wasn't all a dream, although he's struck with worry about Marci. What happened? Is Foggy cheating on her? Is she somehow behind all this? He'd been so caught up in following Foggy's little cues today that he hadn't even stopped to think.

  
Foggy comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel loosely knotted around his waist and Matt's heart lurches. He doesn't deserve Foggy, really. Dancing out of Foggy's reach as he gropes for Matt, he puts a few paces between them before asking the dreaded question.

  
"Did Marci put you up to this?" And immediately kicks himself. _Very casual, nice_.

  
Foggy frowns. "Put me up, how?"

  
"Does she know?"

  
"Um, she has forever but wait - put me up to this? What do you mean?"

  
Matt forces himself to say Please, please don't hate me for this before it all tumbles out of his mouth. It feels like being up on that rooftop, cradling his stomach in the disbelief that everything was suddenly happening so fast and how he was utterly unprepared for admitting to himself that he'd been running away from something that could have been beautiful. Foggy stands barefoot, a few errant drops of water rolling down his torso and into the edge of the towel as he takes it all in, gaping slightly.

  
"- and I didn't wanna listen but I just heard and I swear I told myself it didn't mean what it meant, and then you turned up today and all this" - he gestures to Foggy and his towel - "happened."

  
"Wow."

  
"I'm sorry, Foggy, I was trying to get away and it must be Pavlovian or something, because I swear - "

  
Foggy's seems like he might explode, and Matt edges away just as Foggy takes a deep breath and says, "Okay. Okay."

  
He approaches Matt with his palm out, unthreatening. "Sit, will you? It's fine."

  
Matt rests one butt-cheek against a chair but he stands, a little anxiously. "Foggy I... I freaked out completely, after. I probably deserved to", he admits. "Is Marci, um." The question sticks in his throat. It feels disrespectful to ask, uncomfortable to think he and Foggy may be standing on the bones of a freshly-broken relationship.

  
Foggy sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. "I don't even know how to begin, honestly. But you're not entirely wrong." Matt lifts his chin quizzically. "About being put up to this by her."

  
He disappears into Matt's bedroom, flinging open the closet in search of pyjama pants. His voice is muffled by the plywood as he clarifies, "I really did say your name." There's a long pause, almost as if Foggy's too exhausted from admitting it out loud even though they just had sex.

He emerges, pulling on a ratty pair of sweats Matt's had since Columbia. Apparently Foggy remembers, if his fond rubbing of the material between his fingers is any indication. "God, your ass looked so good in these it drove me crazy. Literally." Nosing against Matt's jaw, Foggy sniffs him a bit which is oddly tender.

  
"Don't change th-the subject", Matt nudges, trying to hold Foggy at arm's length ( _come here right now_ ). Foggy relents, cupping his face in both hands instead.

  
"Matt, buddy, these are the facts. I've considered you attractive ever since I had the great fortune of laying eyes on you. And then - I don't know - it seemed stupid and shortsighted to pursue your roommate, especially cuz I'd already backtracked so hard there was no coming back smoothly from it". Matt canted his eyes in his best impression of a eye-roll. "And! You were such a ladykiller I obviously put it out of my mind and didn't try to get into your pants, but I loved you".

He pulls Matt's face towards him for emphasis. "Do you know how many jokes Marci made about us being married? Yeah well, she wasn't even laughing by the time our relationship wound to an end. There were real issues. Time-spending, loyalty-giving, mooning -over issues which I... get. This time we didn't even pretend otherwise; we were both placeholders in each other's lives and she was going to get tired of it someday." The one-shouldered shrug is too studied to be casual. Matt reciprocates by giving him a quick kiss.

"I don't even remember when it began, though. _You_.", Foggy continues. "I couldn't stop myself. You were funny, intelligent and sweet and so goddamn good, Matt. Somehow you saw the best in me." Matt levels Foggy with a _how-dare-you-sell-yourself-short_ look. 

Foggy shakes it off. "You kept reading Thurgood Marshall! You made me see Landman and Zack for the soul-killing enterprise it was and - you saved Hell's Kitchen! Multiple times and for absolutely no reward but a whole lotta bleeding! Which is all kinds of outrageous and dangerous and I'm still sort of mad but I'd be lying if I said I didn't admit that you're a good man. A terrifyingly idealistic bastard that can drop-kick people." Foggy touches the corner of Matt's mouth with his thumb. "I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, Matty."

  
Suddenly Matt can't swallow around the lump in his throat, so he places his hands on Foggy's instead, memorising the feeling of Foggy holding him so gently. He's been wondering how it would feel if Foggy felt the same way about him for so long that it still seems unreal, despite the warmth of Foggy's solid presence anchoring him down in the moment. There is no coming back from this now, he thinks, and leans forward until their foreheads touch. When he breathes he imagines his insides aglow with love.

  
"You redeem my sins, Foggy", he sighs. Surging forward again, he kisses Foggy so fiercely they both stumble a little before they hold on tightly, swaying on the spot. There will be time, later, to say more.

  
\- Presently Foggy's phone will ring stridently, with Marci on the other side demanding "Did you tell him yet? If I have to intervene I swear to god I thought we were too old for t- "

\- They'll kiss some more between goofy, dopey smiles and mouths tasting of pizza -

  
\- They'll go to the re-opening of Vanessa's art gallery, which is where Foggy had intended to take him to, joined by Marci in a killer dress and even more killer heels, glowering approvingly at them. They will tell Karen, who will squeal non-stop for a minute and temporarily be back to her old self. There will be more ice-cream and licking it off each other's mouths -

  
But for now, there is this. Holding onto one other in the same room where the weight of secrets nearly tore them apart, suddenly granted another beginning.

 

**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a weight lifted off my heart with the ending of this fic. Thanks for reading!


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